


Help Is Always Given

by Bennyhatter



Series: TWD at Hogwarts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: And also trash, Author is trying to remember, Baby Daryl, Crossover, Daryl grows up at Hogwarts, Everything they can about books/movies, F/M, I'm American, M/M, Mama!Hagrid, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Papa!Merle, Protective Merle, So Bear With me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6651127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hagrid finds Merle in the Forbidden Forest, fleeing from who-knows-what, looking beaten and with an infant boy in his arms. Naturally, he takes them in and tries to help the best he can.</p><p>Daryl grows up at Hogwarts, basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Is Always Given

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cornbread5287](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornbread5287/gifts).



> So. I'm trash. And cornbread over in RWG really, really wanted a HP/TWD crossover, I guess, and of course I said yes. Because I have no restraint.
> 
> It's Daryl at Hogwarts, you guys. Come on. Magic and magical creatures and fucking hilarity, y'know?
> 
> .... Yeah. That's all I got for ya.
> 
> I am American. This fic has been beta'd, Britpicked, and hopefully approved by AmbecaWatson. *thumbs up* Any and all other typos and or mishaps are mine own.

Fog is curling thickly amongst the trees of the Forbidden Forest when Hagrid steps out of his hut. He watches as thin tendrils try to snake their way across the invisible line that divides the darkness from Hogwarts' warmth and light, his hands tucked into the front of his deerskin vest and Fang whining quietly at his side.

"Come off it, yeh great baby," he chuckles fondly as he reaches over to scratch the giant mastiff between his ears. "We ain't goin' in there t'night, hush yer fears. Got other things ter worry abou', I reckon."

'Other things' involves working on the last bit of mess left over by the Dark Lord's attack. Most of the debris has been magicked away, but the lawns need tending to, the courtyard has a few things it requires done before the School reopens, and Hagrid is feeling unusually restless tonight. Fang is mirroring his mood as they walk along the edge of the Forest together, loping back and forth and peering into the shadowed depths. Occasionally he will whine and paw at the ground, but Hagrid is well-versed in his beloved pet's quirks, and he pushes the beast's massive head away with one large hand.

" _C'mon_ , Fang. Told yeh we ain' goin' in. Wha's go' yeh so twisted up?"

Fang barks then, a deep, vibrating shock of noise. Hagrid frowns and opens his mouth, ready to chastise the beast, but before he can he hears the wailing of an infant from amongst the trees. It's a clear sound, one he knows instinctively as well as intimately, for all that it's been almost two decades since the last time he heard such a miserable cry. Back then, the circumstances were vastly different, but a baby is a _baby_ regardless of circumstance, and to hear a little one vocalizing such distress pulls a reaction from Hagrid instantaneously.

He doesn't think, he just runs. Fang is baying at his heels, heavy paws thudding loudly as they plunge into the Forest. Twisted branches snag at Hagrid, catching his thick fur coat and yanking at his hair. The forest has never fought him like this, but as he draws closer and the baby wails louder, roots rise up to trip him and beady eyes glow in the deeper shadows.

"Shhh, li'l brother, yeh go on an' hush now. Merle's got yeh, yeh're okay. Soon's we're free a' these soddin' woods, I'll make yeh th' biggest bloody bottle yeh ever suckled. Shhh, easy now."

Hagrid slows when he sees the boy curled protectively around the bundle in his arms. He's not much older than Harry and his lot, his dark curls mussed and made filthy and his clothes ragged. There's streaks of dirt on his cheeks and throat, a line of dried, flaking blood trailing down from above his swollen left eye, and his eyes glitter with wariness and the promise of violence as soon as he lays eyes on Hagrid.

"'Oo th' fuck’re you, mate?"

"Heard th' baby," Hagrid says, trying to calm his ragged breathing as he stops far enough back to hopefully inspire comfort. "What're yeh doin' ou' 'ere 'n th' Forbidden Forest? Don' yeh know s'dangerous?"

The teenager laughs, and it's a mean, bitter sound that makes something in Hagrid ache. It's a broken noise, one that makes him aware that the young man in front of him already knows plenty well what danger is, and a forest is the least of his worries in that regard. Still, this is no place for an _infant_ , and the tiny bundle is still warbling miserably in a way that is worse to experience than his caretaker's brusque nature.

"I can offer yeh shelter," he blurts out before he's properly thought about it. Those sharp, calculating eyes narrow, and the boy's thin lips turn downward in a scowl. "I mean yeh no 'arm, honest. I've go' room, an' yeh look dead on yer feet, lad. If not fer yerself, do it fer th' li'l one. These woods ain't no place fer a baby. No' after dark. No' even really durin' th' day."

"How do I know this ain't a trap?" The boy hugs the swaddled bundle closer to his chest, a hand cradling behind the baby's head protectively while it sniffles and whines. It's gearing up for a proper wail again, and Hagrid winces prematurely as Fang whines.

"I swear on m' life s'not. Please, jus' lemme show yeh. I live nearby, we'll be there soon."

"Yeh live near that big castle school, then?"

Hagrid blinks. Muggles cannot see Hogwarts, which means this boy must be a wizard, or come from a family of them. Strange, then, that he doesn't have his wand out already to light his way. Is he afraid of drawing unsavory beasts, or leading something else to him?

"Aye. M'the groundskeeper. Me'n Fang, here, we take care'a th' place." He pats the dog between his shoulders, feeling the way the mastiff is trembling from the effort of restraining himself. "Can give yeh a warm meal an' a nice pint, if yer willin'. Get tha' little'un somethin' ter eat. Reckon 'e must be starvin' by now."

"Aye," the boy mutters. His accent is thick and rough, like he's spent too much time away from more refined, cultured folk. Hagrid watches him deliberate, chewing at his lower lip. There's barely enough light to see by, even with the moon hanging fat and full overhead, but the halfling giant has spent many nights in the Forest, finding his way with little or no light. He sees when those tense shoulders lower slightly—when the prospect of warm food overcomes the wariness of the unknown, and hunger takes precedence over pride.

"Sure, mate. Lead th' way."

 

\--

 

His name is Merle, Hagrid learns, but that's about all he can understand between the boy's voracious bites. He tears into the chicken and mash like he hasn't eaten in days, the baby sleeping peacefully against his chest and shoulder now that he's been fed and changed. He's an adorable little tyke, with a head of soft-looking hair that Hagrid isn't quite sure whether to label as golden-blonde or light brown. While Merle had been feeding him, Hagrid had caught a glimpse of big, pale blue eyes, and he knows he's already far too attached for his own good. It's a _baby_ , though, and he loves taking care of babies. It doesn't matter whether they're furry, covered in scales, or human shaped. If it's a baby, he wants to protect it and rear it and give it the world.

"Wha's 'is name?" he asks quietly, leaning a little closer until he knows he's far enough from the way Merle pauses with his teeth closed around the bone of a chicken leg, grease-shiny lips pulled back and something wild in his eyes. The boy rips another mouthful of meat away and chews slowly, watching him with blue eyes that are darkened by suspicion.

"Daryl," he replies after a tense moment where Hagrid fears him running away, going back to the Forest and the merciless beasts that roam there. "His name is Daryl."

"How old is 'e? Where's yer mum an' da?"

Merle sits up straighter, his broad shoulders stiffening as tension bleeds across his young face. He's definitely no older than Harry, but there's something in the weathered, tired lines around his mouth and the beaten look in his eyes that makes him seem far older. Hagrid feels like he's looking at a man in his prime, not a teenager barely old enough to be out of school.

"They're dead," the boy hisses, and Hagrid watches how everything falls away when Daryl whines in his sleep. The rumbling, snapping mongrel falls away, replaced by a tenderness that is starting in comparison as he rocks the infant and croons quietly to him. Once Daryl is settled again, a tiny thumb firmly stuck in his mouth and strands of hair spilling into his eyes, Hagrid watches Merle tilt his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"They're dead," he says again, voice whisper-soft and void of emotion. Hagrid waits patiently, knowing that more is coming. "Da took 'er out, an' I got 'im 'fore th' fucker got ter Daryl." A shake of the head makes Merle's tangled curls bounce, and he snorts out an angry sound. "Don' matter, in th' end. She was a worthless mum, an' 'e was an abusive wanker. Should'a died years ago, both'a 'em. Guess 'm glad they didn', though."

The way Merle looks at his brother, like Daryl is his whole world, reminds Hagrid of a young boy with a lightning scar and terrifying potential, who had been lost and alone and left to believe no one would ever love him. He remembers how confused Harry had been—how excited and terrified, and how certain he was that he would never live up to the expectations others had set for him. Hagrid has loved that boy since the first time he saw him, so tiny and fragile and freshly orphaned. He likes to think of himself as a surrogate father, and knows very well that Harry regards him as a dear friend. He misses the boy, who is now certainly a man. He hopes to see him again soon.

Harry had people rooting for him on all fronts. This boy in front of him, with the hunched posture and the gentle arms that hold his brother like he'll cause irreparable damage if he squeezes too hard, has no one. He's on the run, no doubt, if he's truly murdered his father. He's determined, driven, and completely dedicated to the tiny thing he's looking at with a love so deep and fierce that it reminds Hagrid of the dragons he'd once tried to tame.

"Yeh go' anywhere ter go, lad?" he wonders aloud, tilting his head, and tired blue eyes slant his way.

"Nowhere 's worth stayin' long," Merle admits, and the confession looks like it's taken more years from him. He looks ready to fall over, and Fang whines from his bed. "Nowhere safe 'nough fer a man, much less a babe."

"Ain't go' much," Hagrid says, gesturing around his cluttered little hut, "bu' if yeh need a few days, I can give yeh tha'. Hogwarts 's well protected. Yeh'll find no safer place in all'a Britain. When yeh decide t' be on yer way, I can help with 'at, too. 'Til then, I can give yeh a roof, an' food, an' a warm place ter kip fer 's long as yeh need it."

Merle thinks it over, unconsciously resting his cheek against his brother's tiny head.

"How old is 'e?"

"Six months," the young man finally sighs. He rubs one large, dirty hand up and down Daryl's back, and something like tenderness flickers across his tired features when the infant makes a soft, happy sound and curls closer.

"Ain' no life fer a babe, runnin' an' hunkerin' 'n places tha' aren' even safe 'nough fer a grown man." Hagrid is trying to contain himself, but he wants to hold the tiny bundle, wants to curl his massive form around the pure innocence of the child and never let anything bad get through. He wants to protect and nurture the youngling in ways he was never shown, and he wants to protect Merle too, if the proud boy will let him.

"I s'ppose a night're two won' be too much," Merle finally mutters, and Hagrid almost doesn't hear him because he's so focused on watching the side profile of Daryl's face as the baby sleeps. When the words finally register, a smile sweeps across his face and gets lost in the wild tangle of his beard.

"Brilliant!" Standing as quickly—and quietly—as a man his size is able, he hurries to start fixing the spare cot for Merle. He's taken to keeping one ready, just in case he does get visitors who plan to stay a night or two. He's gotten a few more than he'd ever thought to expect, including young Neville. The boy has grown into himself quite a lot since the War. Hagrid greatly enjoys his company when he stops by.

"I haven' got a crib," he says apologetically as he heaps thick, warm quilts onto the cot. "Ain' been 'round many human babies lately."

"As opposed ter animal babies?" Merle arches an eyebrow but doesn't ask for an elaboration, just kicks his boots off and settles on the cot as soon as Hagrid steps back. "Don' worry 'bout it, yeah? Gotten good at keepin' 'im close an' not squirmin' at night."

To prove his point, he lays over on his side and keeps Daryl's much smaller body close to his chest. His shoulder is going to hurt in the morning, no doubt, but he doesn't try to find a more comfortable position. In fact, Hagrid isn't entirely sure his guest isn't asleep before his head hits the pillow.

Watching the two of them sleep, Hagrid feels a swell of something very much like contentment in his chest. Fang has already left his bed and is stretched out beside the low cot, his massive head resting on the hard edge as he sniffs at Daryl's hair and whines quietly. His tail sweeps across the floor rather than thumping, and Hagrid marvels at the canine's instincts before leaving the three of them be for the moment as he goes to find a quill and parchment.

He has a letter to send.

 

\--

 

"How did yeh even manage ter get inter th' Forbidden Forest?"

Merle looks up from his bowl of porridge and makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. In the morning light, with no shadows to play tricks, his face is a mess of swelling and bruises, but he acts like he doesn’t even realize the damage is there. "Dunno," he admits, and Hagrid frowns at him in confusion. The young man looks at his lumpy breakfast before leaning over to check on Daryl. They've laid out a thick, warm blanket on the floor for him, and Hagrid has found some toys that are safe enough for him to play with—where they've come from, he is unsure, but he's washed them and Daryl seems very happy with the squishy teething ring he's yet to take out of his mouth.

"How d'yeh no' know?"

"Was runnin' through Hogsmeade an' jus' kinda stumbled off th' road. Next thing I know there's trees an' 'm runnin' like th' hounds'a hell're on m'heels. Tha' damn forest is a helluva lot bigger'n I'd though' at firs'."

The Forbidden Forest is massive, stretching far enough up into the mountains to make it seem endless when one is lost in the depths of the darkness that lurks there. Even in midday there is no guarantee that one will pass through unmolested. The Forest caters to a particular breed, and people like Merle with babies like Daryl _do not belong there._

Before anyone can break the silence that has descended a bit too heavily for Hagrid's tastes, there is a brisk knock on the door. Fang whines immediately and goes to curl his enormous bulk around Daryl, licking the infant's messy hair and making him gurgle happily around the drool-soaked ring clamped between his gums. A few teeth are already grown in, which is probably why Daryl is so taken with the bumpy surface of the ring. It must feel wonderful for his mouth.

"Yeh go' comp'ny," Merle says unnecessarily. He's tense, his grip on his spoon so tight his knuckles are turning white. His blue eyes dart between the door and Daryl, like he's wondering how fast he can grab his brother and get out the closest window.

"Aye, an' yeh've nothin' ta worry 'bout, lad. She'll no' bite, 'less yeh give 'er a reason."

He's going for humor, but he's pretty sure he's missed the mark. Merle tenses even further, and when Hagrid stands slowly to go and answer the door, he hears the unhappy sounds Daryl makes as he's picked up off of his blanket and settled on his brother's lap. If Merle thinks he needs to keep Daryl close to meet the—admittedly intimidating—woman waiting on the other side of the door, Hagrid's not going to try to convince him differently. If he had his way, the infant would be settled in a papoose against the half-giant's barrel-like chest, but he hasn't built enough trust with Merle, who is wary and ready to lunge even at his calmest moments, his barely-tempered paranoia liable to flare at the slightest provocation.

Opening the door for Minerva McGonagall, he smiles at the Headmistress and sees her severe-looking features soften in return as she gifts him with a warm, fond look.

"Good morning, Hagrid."

"G'mornin', ma'am. C'mon in, no need ter bother stayin' on th' stoop. Go' breakfast if yeh're hungry."

"Thank you, but I must politely decline this morning." She smiles, and Hagrid knows she will never accept a meal from him, but he will always offer anyway.

Merle, at least, seems to see nothing wrong with his cooking, but maybe that should be the most telling thing. How badly off must he have been, to be so eager to shove lumpy porridge and admittedly-questionable sausages into his face with all the manners of a street urchin?

"Good morning, young man," the Headmistress of Hogwarts says once she has Merle's attention on her. Hagrid hopes there won't be any issues, but he can already see from the tense set of Merle's shoulders and the twitching of his upper lip that this meeting might not end well.

He genuinely hopes it does, for Daryl's sake.

"Mornin'," Merle grunts, and Daryl blubbers happily while trails of drool drip onto his little green shirt. "'Oo're yeh s'pposed ta be?"

"I am Minerva McGonagall, the Headmistress of this school. Who are _you_?"

"Merle." He gives her an unimpressed stare.

"And the child?"

"M'bruver, Daryl." His eyes narrow dangerously, but the older witch is clearly immune to the surly glares of teenagers—as should she be, after so many years teaching them.

"I see." Minerva tilts her head forward just slightly to observe Merle over the top of her glasses. "How is it you came to be in the Forbidden Forest, young man?"

"The fuck's it t' yeh, lady," Merle snaps, and Hagrid frowns heavily. He wants to tell the boy to show some respect, but Minerva just smiles pleasantly in a way that chills him down to his core.

People often forget that Minerva McGonagall is far more than just an elderly woman. Her powers are legendary, and her ability to handle arrogant brats with grace and poise is renowned.

"I could call the Ministry here if you'd prefer, and have you taken in for trespassing. After all, one cannot be too careful after recent events."

"Th' fuck is you even on about, woman?" Pushing himself back from the table, Merle stands and tucks Daryl against his chest—curls his shoulders and hunches in a way that reminds Hagrid of a dog protecting its pup. The infant boy whines around his teething ring and squirms, but a low sound from his brother and a large hand patting the tiny back with infinite care helps to settle Daryl's distress.

"Where is your wand?"

Minerva asking after it makes Hagrid realize suddenly that he'd never even asked Merle the same before welcoming the boy into his hut. He's seen no hint of anything that might _be_ a wand, and it makes him curious, and a little uneasy. A quick glance at Daryl, whose tiny face is beginning to scrunch up, changes his nerves to concern.

"Li'l lad's hungry," he murmurs. "I'll make 'im a bot'le." He turns to do so while still trying to pay attention to the conversation. The next words have him turning back quickly.

"Ain't got no feckin' wand," Merle spits as he shifts his hold on Daryl to support him with one hand while the other scratches at his dirty throat and runs through his wild, tangled curls. "Th' fuck yeh goin' on about, seriously?"

"You have no wand," Minerva repeats, looking contemplative as one deceptively frail-looking hand brushes down the front of her forest green, velvet robes. "Have you any magic at all? You must have _something_ , to have found this place. No muggles have ever seen past the spell work that has been cast to keep this school safe. What family are you from?"

Merle looks like he's not sure whether he should be shouting or laughing. Hagrid carefully screws the lid onto the bottle he's made for Daryl and moves closer to where Merle has begun pacing. He cannot hide his surprise when Daryl blows a spit bubble at him and laughs.

"Thanks, mate." The bottle exchanges hands and he watches the natural ease with which Merle turns and lays Daryl back before offering the infant the nipple. The three of them watch Daryl drink for a moment before Merle breaks the mounting tension in a way that manages to come across as more tired than malicious.

"Came from a long line'a Dixons who weren't ever anythin' special. Figured Daryl an' I were jus' two more links in th' chain."

"Does magic run in your family?"

"Fuck if I know. Ain't never heard 'bout it 'fore now. Should it?"

Hagrid watches as Minerva looks the two of them over—Merle, who meets her gaze without fear and even raises his chin challengingly, and Daryl, who makes wet, pleased sounds around the nipple of his bottle as he drinks powerfully. When are babies considered old enough to move onto semi-solid foods? The groundskeeper makes a mental note to ask someone who knows what they're doing.

"It very well might." Minerva moves toward the window and looks out into Hagrid's pumpkin patch, her hands folded loosely in front of her. He watches as the tension in her shoulders slowly eases away, like she's coming to a decision and has deemed it prudent and wise.

"Ma'am?" he asks anyway, knowing already that it has something to do with the two boys sat at his table. He's eager to know what she's thinking, but knows better by now than to badger the elderly witch. When she's ready, she will talk—she and Dumbledore are alike in that way.

Thinking of the old wizard who meant so much to all of them brings a pang of sadness, but Hagrid has had his time to grieve, and the ones responsible paid for their crimes. He will never forget his friend, but he will honor him with happy memories instead of dwelling in the pain.

As if the man is still present, a small sparrow lands on his windowsill and sings a trilling note at them before fluttering away. As if that is the cue Minerva has been waiting for, the woman turns back toward them and fixes her attention on Merle.

"Mr. Dixon, do you have a house, or a place to stay, in the nearby area?"

Merle frowns at her, but it's not a mean sneer. It seems more like sadness to Hagrid, who watches from his place near the crackling fire. Daryl has finished his bottle, and Merle sets it on the table before laying the infant against his shoulder to burp him without any fumbling. Clearly he is well-versed in caring for his brother; he's been doing it for long enough to be confident in his movements even when he's not fully paying attention.

"Ain't had a place ter go in a long while," the boy says tiredly. "Had a house, but it wasn' a good place ter be even when I could live there. S'gone now, no doubt. So no, lady—ain't got a place ter stay."

"Do you have a job? Some way to care for yourself and your brother?"

Merle bristles at that, his lips peeling back with all the aggression of a mutt who thinks his dominance is being questioned. "Ain't never failed in carin' fer Daryl since th' day he was birthed. Don' be treatin' me like I can' do it now, woman. Don' wanna play that game, trust me. Yeh won' win."

"Well," Minerva replies, and the way she smiles is more pleased than anything. Hagrid makes to step forward, thinking he should intervene, but the Headmistress glances at him calmly and he settles back against the wall again.

"Yeh best show 'er some respect, lad," he warns Merle anyway, and narrows his eyes when the young man turns to glare at him. "Minerva McGonagall is more'n yeh can handle onna good day, lad. Bes' no' try'n handler her when yeh've made her mad."

"Thank you, Hagrid, but I think young mister Dixon is smarter than that, aren't you?" She looks deliberately at Merle, and he wisely hides his teeth and cradles the back of Daryl's head once his brother is burped and trying to look around curiously. When he turns enough to see Minerva, he coos at her and the woman's smile becomes that much warmer.

"If you have enough magic in you to see what otherwise cannot be seen, then I wonder if your brother shares in that as well."

Hagrid watches as Minerva crosses the space between her and Merle, reaching out under his hawk-eyed stare to touch one of Daryl's chubby little cheeks.

"It takes a village to raise a child," she murmurs, and Hagrid cannot help the way his heart jumps hopefully at the quiet, gentle words. "I wonder if, in this case, a school could do half as well."

"What're yeh on about?" Merle rumbles, but Hagrid notices that he doesn't pull away. Daryl giggles and curls his tiny hand around Minerva's finger, squeezing it and trying to pull it into his mouth. She's very careful about how she deflects him, offering the teething ring instead and smiling when the infant boy looks at it like he's contemplating the merits of it before he finally accepts the toy with a quiet babble.

"I cannot in good conscience turn you back out into the world when you've nothing to go back to, not when it's not just your life I'm putting at risk by doing so."

Minerva leans away again, her hands once again folded in front of her and her head raised proudly, every inch the only Headmistress qualified to follow Albus Dumbledore.

"The option I see that fits best, in this case, is to have you remain here for the time being, until other arrangements can be made. You are not a prisoner," she adds, cutting the boy off smoothly when he opens his mouth. "You may come and go as you please, young man, so long as you obey the rules while you _are_ here."

"What's th' catch?" Merle asks, and Hagrid can see his suspicion, but also his realization that this is the best situation he's going to find himself in for now.

"The _catch_ , as it were, is that you allow Hagrid to show you how to tend to the grounds. You help him, and in return you will have food, board, and a small allowance that will increase as you become more knowledgeable of the various tasks you are given. Daryl will be raised here, in this house, under your care and the watchful eyes of many others. There is no safer place for a child, I assure you."

Merle chews on the corner of his lip, and Hagrid tries not to vibrate out of his own skin. He has taken care of many creatures, but it has been a long time since he has been around a human child. He's already so attached to Daryl, who is a sweet, happy little baby, and he knows that if Merle refuses, if he _leaves_ , they don't stand a chance. Hogwarts is the best place for them now, and when Merle lifts his head to meet Minerva's patient eyes, Hagrid waits impatiently. From his bed, Fang whines, and it sounds pleading, like the mastiff wants the same thing.

"Don' sound like too bad a deal fer now," Merle agrees after a long moment of silence. "Yeh promise m'bruver will be safe?"

"As safe as we can possibly make him. Magic is a powerful force, Merle Dixon. You will learn that very soon. When you have someone you wish to protect more than anything, nothing on earth can stop you."

"Guess m'answer is yes, then. Daryl an' I will stay, 'til I got m'feet under me, an' he's old 'nough ta handle things bett'r."

"Very well then." Minerva takes Merle's free hand when he reaches out and shakes it firmly. Her smile looks pleased, to Hagrid—like she's gotten exactly what she's come for without any of them even realizing she was ever betting to win. "Welcome then, the both of you. I hope you enjoy your stay. Just remember—you will find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

With that, Minerva nods to Merle and smiles at Hagrid once more before leaving in a swirl of green velvet cloaks and the faint scent of lavender and clover.

"Strange lady," Merle snorts, but he looks more relaxed now as he spoons the last of his cold breakfast into his mouth, looking curious but not unhappy.

"You'll meet plenty more soon enough," Hagrid says cheerfully as he bustles about and gathers more ingredients for fresh sausage. Laying one enormous, heavy hand on Merle's shoulder, he squeezes encouragingly. "Welcome ter Hogwarts, lad."


End file.
